We ran along the road and then up the steep part. It was getting dark. On our right was a spooky orange grove surrounded by majestic cypress trees that protected the oranges from the wind.
“Maybe we should cut through the orange grove,” I suggested.
“No way! The guard there shoots salt bullets at whoever enters. They really hurt,” said Reuven.
We continued on until Eilat Street, where we turned left. We were a bit tired by now, and we slowed to a walk. To our left was the Beit Hahaim Cemetery. The name means “House of the Living,” which I think is a pretty funny name for a cemetery.
Reuven and I had heard lots of stories about spirits who go out at night, walk among the graves and look for victims to kidnap. Once we did a test of bravery. We walked the entire length of the cemetery. We did it three times: once at noon, once at twilight and then once on a dark moonless night. After the nighttime exercise I can say pretty much with certainty that ghosts obviously are afraid of kids running around and screaming, “Mommy! Mommy!” in terror. It’s got to be true, because that night not one single ghost rose out of its grave, and the only bones that rattled didn’t belong to a skeleton out for a walk. They belonged to me!
“Let’s cut through the cemetery,” said Reuven, so we climbed over the gate. The cemetery was quiet and still and the tombstones loomed as we ran between them. Even though I knew that there are really no such things as ghosts and spirits, I was a tiny bit afraid. That is to say, I was shaking all over from fear. But I didn’t want Reuven to think that I was a coward, so I just ran as fast as I could until we got to the other side. Only then did I let myself slow to an easy walk.
“I won,” I shouted to Reuven, panting.
“But we weren’t racing. We were running to dry out,” protested Reuven.
“At the beginning we were running to dry out. But then we were racing. And I won.” I laughed.
“That’s not fair. If I’d known, I would have beaten you,” said Reuven, aiming a kick at me. I dodged him easily. We were wet, it was cold, and we had to go home. I watched Reuven turn left on Hatfutzot Street, and I started walking toward my house. I could see the lights of the army compound at the corner of Etzel and Eilat Streets in the distance. A yellowish glow came from the kitchen tent, and the pup tents looked like little pyramids. It was late and I knew Mom would already be angry that I hadn’t gotten back in time for dinner, so I decided that a few more minutes wouldn’t make any difference. I had to know what the spy had taken out of the garbage cans.
I bent over and moved slowly and carefully under the barbed-wire fence, aiming toward the kitchen trash cans. I heard people talking. The dining room was empty, and here and there I saw the glow of a cigarette. I was just approaching where the spy had pulled out the secret material, when I heard a shout that made my heart stand still.
“Halt! Who goes there?” It was the guard. He had spotted me. What was I supposed to do now? How to get out of this mess? I dropped down and lay on the ground.
“Password!” shouted the guard.
I pressed my face to the ground like an ostrich. I held my breath and grabbed my head with both hands. I didn’t utter a word (not that I could have if I had wanted to, because my mouth was stuffed with sand). I was terrified that if I tried to speak, the soldier would think I was trying to make up a password and would shoot me. Suddenly, I felt a sharp blow to my side. I raised my head and saw a giant, menacing figure looming over me. From below, the soldier looked enormous. The light from behind him blinded me. I only saw the ominous silhouette of his heavy army boot that had kicked at me and his angry face in shadow. The barrel of his rifle was pointed at me.
“Kid! What are you doing here?” he roared.
“I …” I tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t upset him too much.
“You shouldn’t be here! C’mon. Get up!” he yelled, urging me along with some small kicks.
“Oww! Oww! Stop …” I tried to raise my bruised and wounded body up off the ground.
“You scared me! I almost shot you!” The soldier sounded angry and grumpy. His huge rifle was pointing right at me. I straightened up slowly with my hands above my head, praying for him not to shoot me. The soldier looked at me and lowered his rifle.
“Oh, for goodness sake! Put your arms down. It’s not the Wild West here,” he said, more relaxed. Now that I was standing, the soldier didn’t seem so tall anymore. In fact, he was pretty short for a soldier. Just about my height. I lowered my hands carefully and wiped them on my pants to clean off the sand sticking to them. The soldier shouldered his rifle, which was almost as long as he was tall. I recognized it easily. It was a “Czechi”—a Czech long-barreled rifle. Reuven’s father had brought home such a rifle during reserve duty once. He had taught Reuven how to disassemble and reassemble it blindfolded. One day, Reuven found the rifle stashed under the bed and snuck it up to the roof. There, next to the dovecote, he had explained to me how the gun is divided into three parts: barrel, body, and butt. But he said he would only allow me to touch the butt, because a rifle is a very dangerous thing, and only someone well trained, like him, should ever handle live firearms.
“Are you still here? Scram! Don’t ever show your face around here again. Next time I’ll shoot you without a second thought!” The soldier’s voice sounded more amused than angry, but before I could move, he kicked my backside like someone trying to score a penalty shot. If I hadn’t made my getaway fast, he would have kicked me again.
Uncle Fischel once told me about guards who gave their prisoners the opportunity to try to escape just so they could compete with each other to see who could hit the escaping prisoner on the run. This was much more fun for them than shooting at a stationary target. I was terrified that this was what the guard was up to, so I ran as fast as I could in a zigzag pattern, leaning my body to the side to make it harder for him to hit me. I scurried through the fence and then cautiously peeked back. The soldier was ambling toward the kitchen tent, his rifle slung over his shoulder like a broomstick. But he no longer interested me. Instead, my eyes were fixed on a shadowy figure snooping in the trash behind him. I strained my eyes, and I’m pretty sure of what I saw. I recognized that black coat and droopy hat. Absolutely! It was our mysterious spy. He had returned to collect more classified material.
I recalled the spy in Eight on the Track of One. He also had set up his headquarters near a military base. Now I understood why our spy had chosen to settle in our poor suburb of Ramat Gan. Obviously, he had advance knowledge that an army base was going to be set up here, and he had been sent to spy and gather information about our military activity. He must not be allowed to pass this information to our enemies. We had to stop him at all costs.
I wanted to go back and tail him, but I was afraid. That nervous little soldier might change his mind and shoot me or kick me again. I went home, but my mind couldn’t rest. Here was a spy collecting confidential material from a military base and a soldier was allowing him to do so. There was no way that soldier hadn’t seen him. So why hadn’t he stopped him? Was that soldier a traitor too?